


On The Wall

by mhs0501



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Alternative Perspective, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, POV First Person, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, This is basically Gilead from a Driver's Perspective, fanwork, thoughts, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-09 21:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15276639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mhs0501/pseuds/mhs0501
Summary: Commander Hawthorne's Driver longs for some kind of outlet for his thoughts, and this journal, scrapped together, is the result. In a world one secret can easily destroy you, he attempts to survive. Whether or not he'll do so depends on if he can be smart enough.This is my first Handmaid's Tale Fanfiction. I'm out of practice with writing. But I'm posting this anyway.





	1. Thoughts On Paper

I wasn’t out when they started.

 

I never was quite sure, even before. I mean, I always  _ knew _ , but I didn’t act on it. I was too preoccupied with other things… we all were, back then. Latency was a luxury we could afford back then, ignoring all the shit that was happening to the world. Now with how quiet everything is it feels like latency is all there is to life; just wading through waist deep water, trying to cross a moat between the prison gate and the infinite forest of trees to disappear into.

 

In my mind, the moat was once something manageable-- like lapping a swimming pool. Then as the days crawled by it slowly grew longer and longer until the treetops were barely a solid line on the horizon. I would have to turn back, otherwise I’d drown before I lasted half the opportunity the night would present me in my coping analogy.

 

It was stupid, sure, but in Gilead it’s so quiet. Too quiet. If I didn’t think about anything I’d have used the gun on my belt to end myself before it lasted two minutes. 

 

I remember reading something about that, in psychology class in high school: how the mind can adapt to sensory input or lack thereof within minutes. I bet if that were the case here there wouldn’t be so many bodies that were hung on the wall, but there’s less than there used to be. Back when it started the dyke purges were still fresh in everyone’s minds. I would even be called to hang some if I was seen outside nearby, waiting for my Commander to come back from whatever business he wasn’t too chatty about on the drive over.

 

Ten at once, they’d remarked. Busted a Quakers safe house. More were coming. I block it out and pull by the man’s shoulders, praying to myself that the bloody sleeve doesn’t rip. The dead unsettle me. Make me feel sick. Like they’re trying to pull me closer till I die myself. 

 

I wasn’t in town the next day but Mona filled me in. I listened with dull eyes, focusing on the number of knobs on the cabinet in the corner. Sixteen, black and polished, with a braided design embossed like a halo. A crown. Then she was done. She must’ve noticed I wasn’t responding.

 

She’d been taking over her shopping for the day. I called her ‘her’ because I don’t know here real name, not technically at least. I know they call her Ofchester, just like they called the last one. I know I’m supposed to call her that, but I don’t. When we cross paths, I bow my head and respond to her pleasantries, quiet and meek, doing as she’s told with her shopping bag and conjoined twin waiting for her outside the front gate. Walking off to the store, feet stuck in an indestructible rail. Walking off to an exact destination and back every time, but it’s something.   

 

I used to walk everywhere. I miss that feeling. I didn’t even own a car back then; too expensive, and getting used to driving again was a laborious task. But Commander Hawthorne apparently thought I was worthy of being his chauffeur, so here I am. I guess it could be worse. It’s not like there’s traffic jams or accidents in Gilead.

 

I could be on the wall, with that Quaker man and his children. The light must’ve hit them when they’d tried to get their guests through the moat. Light shone on the traitor; a divine one, they’d say, and bathed the man and his children in a forgiving glow.

 

More like poisoning an ant until it returns to infect its own nest; it’s own sanctuary, as its insides melt and shlosh around an empty thorax. Either way, it’s all bullshit.

 

But it’s where I am, waiting for something outside, whether it’s outside my door, outside the border, or even outside the planet. Hell, if aliens were to invade the earth it’d be a Godsend. At least they’d probably all kill us before we had to spend another second watching the bodies twist in the air like lifeless dolls, blood congealing on the pavement beneath their bare feet. 

 

The bags were a good idea. Well, not a  _ good  _ idea, like taking the bus or investing in stock exchange. More like a ‘shut the door so the kids won’t hear us fighting’ type of good. Preventative goodness. Seeing their faces would mean they were still human to us.

 

Someone I once knew told me once you remember the similarities under the skin, the labels vanish. I remember learning once why eyeless things were terrifying. Eyes were a window to the soul-- something to connect to, to empathize with, to remind you there’s something there.

 

Not there. Now there’s nothing there. The bags over their heads blind us to them, from seeing the same angled jaw, the same lips, the same stubble or birthmark. It’s selfish. It’s disrespectful. But lack of true identity is good for my sanity. If I had to see an old colleague or classmates or even a friend from somewhere years ago, it would be much more effective in breaking my spirits.

 

Or on second thought, maybe it would have the opposite effect, to know the circle of people who could kill me by knowing what they knew before were being picked off, one by one, until I’m the only claim or evidence; and the defendant who claims guilt in this world is a stupid one.

 

I’m sorry if I sound like a horrible person for thinking this. I just can’t explain the feeling of relief when I know someone from my old life is free from torment one way or another. By border or by the wall. But I’ve only felt this way once, so it’s not true relief; not yet. There are still a few who’s fate can’t be narrowed down with any degree of certainty. So I just don’t think about it some days.

 

Thinking can also drive you mad, if you’re in too deep.

 

I guess that’s a fragile balance, true; but if that’s what it takes to survive here, I’m not sticking my neck out yet.

 

Maybe I shouldn’t have started writing again, writing this. I used to be all sentimental about that kind of thing-- preserving random shit for future generations. I guess back then it had no true purpose when it was made, things like personal accounts. Like that girl’s diary way back then. This doesn’t really have a purpose other than to keep myself from becoming a jumbled mess of unfinished thoughts-- like a broken word processor. Strings or words snipped and the weight falling dead towards the pavement, only for the rope round the neck to catch them.

 

I shouldn’t have started writing this, even in my own space above the kitchen in the seperate flat. Like that girl and her family. I’m going to be caught sometime. There was an old saying I remember reading back during my English class in college. It was a quote of the day. Something from Japanese philosophy, for us to analyze and give the professor five minutes to browse porn.

 

The stake that sticks out is the first to be hammered down. I am the stake. I’m not the first, but I stuck out nonetheless. The Eyes are the hammer. I just have to inch my way down into the board, with everyone else, before my brains are bashed in.

 

Before I join him on the wall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't quite know where I'm going with this story but it's kind of nice to not know, ya know?

Mona is chopping vegetables when I come down from the upstairs flat, dress shoes clapping on the terracotta tiled floor. The light over her workspace provides a soft halo of light over her hunched back and blank face as she meticulously slices fresh looking spinach while a kettle sits simmering on the stove.

 

“Blessed day.” She doesn’t look up at me, eyes trained on her work.

 

“Blessed day.” I stop short of saying much else. It’s far too early for Commander Hawthorne and his wife to be up, and she usually doesn’t get up until nine, with the daylight. Her partner doesn’t wait long though.

 

“Sleep well?” She sets her knife down and wraps her hand in a towel as she takes the whistling kettle from the stove.

 

“Yes.” I say as she takes a set-- the good set-- down from the highest shelf. She’s quite tall for being a Martha; usually they’re all around four to five and a half feet. She’s barely shorter than I am, at six feet three inches. “What about you?”

 

She snorts with a slight huff as she gently lowers the tea set to the counter. “Was that some kind of joke?” She asks flatly and shoots me a look before strolling to the cupboard where the tea is.

 

I say nothing. I guess it could be some kind of joke considering how late she’s usually up and how early she has to get out of bed. The lights in the kitchen go from four in the morning until nine at night, when there’s extra to do. We function on a similar schedule.

 

My silence is telling to her. Silence from me usually means a ‘no, I don’t understand,’ to her. She hums a sigh as she steeps the hot tea. “I slept fine. Have a lot to get done today.”

 

I eye the fancy set. It’s a shiny silver color, probably real, probably a set they lifted from Pottery Barn in the days before. It’s the kind of set you let collect dust on the drawing room table. The kind you shoo the children away from, when they reach for it like forbidden treasure. Something the Commander's wife, Nia, takes way too much pride in.

 

“Oh?” I lean on a once functional pipe that now serves as a decorative column, wrought iron latices winding around the vessel like a ficus would to a tree, strangling it.

 

She snorts and gives me a silly look. She doesn’t do that often, but when she does it’s priceless. It’s something. It’s a window past her dismissive and sometimes irritating demeanor. When I feign ignorance at the perfect time, it shows itself. Like a shy bird from its nest.

 

“Nia’s having some kind of weird get together with the other wives today.” She explains. This is new information. I knew there would be something happening but deduction of a woman’s intentions are a mystery to me, like there always were before.

 

“What’s the occasion?” I press as she gets two plain mugs for us and serves me a cup black.

 

“How the hell should I know?” She mused emptily, swiping half an inch of milk from the fridge for her own. “With my luck it’ll just be another tea party.”

 

“They’re out of coffee again?” I raise and eyebrow.

 

“Mmhmm.” She nods and hands me mine, not bothering to ask if I want anything in it when I’d usually take cream and sugar.

 

I’m not surprised. Most of South America’s farmland became too picky to grow coffee even in the time before, and I hardly would expect they’d be open to trading it to a place like Gilead without costing us a metaphorical arm and leg. It was a luxury there, and something we’d get once every few months when negotiations picked up from their usual snail’s pace.       

 

“Good tea, though.” I remark. It’s the truth. It’s very tolerable and even a bit comforting. She nods again, taking a sip.

 

“Gotta take the little things.” She raised her mug in a mock cheers and I follow. 

 

“Here, here.” I shrug. Her frown returns.

 

“So what do you want for breakfast?” She set down her mug. It’s not a question. By law she’s required to serve everyone in the house and give preference to the patriarchal side, even if I’m technically only one step above her in importance. It bugs me that she’s required to do things for me when it’s clear she’d most certainly rather be doing anything else. 

 

“Can you take a rain check?” I propose, not even feeling that hungry. 

 

“You sure?” It’s her turn to raise an eyebrow, even if she’s fishing for that offer. 

 

“Hand over an egg and some of that spinach and I’ll leave you to it.” I step up to the counter like a haggler at a flea market, from the time before. 

 

“How much you need?”

 

“Just half a handful.”

 

She grabs an egg from the fridge and places it on a table setting; a bowl, a fork, a knife, and a plate. She gestured to the spinach. “Help yourself.”

 

“What’s she shopping for today?” I wonder aloud as I add a small handful to my setting.

 

“More eggs,” She immediately countered and picked up her daily stack of clippings, like coupons only they function as simple currency. “Flour, pepper, salmon…”

 

“Making something special?” Eying the currency and seeing much more than she’s telling me.

 

“That wife loves her salmon, and according to Ofchester Loaves and Fishes has some in stock. I’m not about to pass up an opportunity to get that woman off my back.”

 

“I see.” Nodding. “Not afraid of poisoning her? I last time they declared the salmon was safe to eat...”

 

She shrugs with a slight pout in her lip. “Got nothing to lose. I can try doing ceviche to push my luck a little further.”

 

I know this could be a joke, but neither of us wouldn’t be surprised if we took it that far. She can be quite a bitch when the food isn’t up to the standards of her silly friends or God forbid her own. When she gets into one of her moods it can settle over the house like a garbage bag over roadkill, slowly stewing it in the burning rays of the sun.

 

But I know Mona isn’t stupid, otherwise she’d be in the Colonies with the other Unwomen who broke from character. It’s one of the few things I  _ do _ know about her. I don’t quite trust her, but anyone you can joke around with in times like these are worth their weight in gold. And besides, I’d think the feeling was mutual and I can hardly blame her. I must be intimidating-- a solid, brick-built, unyielding force, lenient only to my few superiors. That and I have a dick, and therefore can do anything I’d like to her without much consequence. That could’ve once been intimidating, but Mona knows me enough to gage my proximity to decency.

 

Within the rules from before, anyway.

 

“Under his eye.” I nod finally. “I’ll have these back in a bit.”

 

“Under his eye.” She takes the empty mug and turns back to the farmhouse sink as I ascend the ladder into my flat.

 

* * *

 

It’s currently noon. I’m expected outside the car at one. I left the dishes next to the sink for Mona. I could’ve done them myself but I had to get my thoughts down before I leave this room. I always have to do that, because if I don’t my last record will be about breakfast, and that’s a pretty mundane way to leave you.

 

I don’t really know if there’s a you, yet. For all I know this will be found in the few hours that would coincide with my death, either before or after. I haven’t admitted to anything truly, not yet-- but in Gilead the men can easily read between the lines. But I’m in deep already for writing this down, writing about this hell, so I may as well go as far as I can. There’s much to lose but if it keeps me sane there’s not much of a choice to be had. 

 

So I guess I should’ve started this at the beginning… I’m sorry to you for that. I’ve never done this before. Or maybe I was right to do it this way. Maybe all of the above stated could be an elaborate ruse, for safety or for a joke, and I could’ve fooled you. I have that control, as an author.

 

Or maybe I should’ve said more about myself at the beginning. Either way it’s written in black so there’s nothing to be done about it now. I want to have my life here and before on record not for you but for my sake… if I forget who I am here I’ll never be able to leave Gilead, emotionally.

 

My name isn’t that important-- I got to keep mine and that’s something I’m grateful for, unlike her. I’m usually referred to as such by my Commander, Nia, Mona, and her, although she doesn’t talk much. To everyone else I’m merely an extension of my Commander: Hawthorne’s driver. I bishop to the right hand of the king, but fixed to one movement pattern. That’s not ideal but it’s certainly better than being called Ofchester. 

 

Maybe it would be best to keep my real name hidden for now. I’ve already done as much for the others in this story. But for the sake of having an identity I guess I’ll just call myself Ellis for now. Maybe one day I’ll be able to say what my real name is. Maybe I would if I trusted you more, but I can’t.

 

My name is Ellis Granger. I am twenty two years old. My major was in health sciences with a minor in gender studies, at Columbia University. I’m taller than Nia’s prized apple tree that stands lonely in the front yard in my loafers, but less healthy than it is at the moment. I weigh exactly one hundred and seventy seven pounds, have brown eyes, black hair, and am a gender traitor. I speak fluent Spanish, and lived in Manahattan. I don’t know where I am now, but it must be somewhere in New York still. I should know more as a driver but I never went outside of Manhattan and Brooklyn and now the streets are all nameless. It’s near a body of water. Apple trees grow here.

 

That’s all I know as of right now. Commander Hawthorne’s business never takes him too far in any one direction. At one point we entered Manhattan after an immeasurable amount of time and I got to look around from the invisible circle painted around the car. There were skyscrapers still, ones I recognized but didn’t know the names of. Probably office towers with white collars darting around it in the days before. One that had a logo on the top has an empty imprint of it from the days before.

 

The taxis and cars were all gone, as were the cracks in the sidewalks and roads. Stone words etched in buildings were hastily being filled with white goo and plastered over with scaffolding all around the higher points. A billboard was torn off its platform, clearly with brute force as the jagged metal pieces were arching towards the sky in a twisted mess. I think it used to be advertising a department store.

 

The streets were wide and empty except for the everpresent eyes and the other drivers stuck waiting in the late November cold. The small saplings shivered along with us. The wind was a bitch that day. 

 

The pigeons were still there, pecking at the ground as if there was anything other than immaculate cobblestones. Nobody’s got enough bread to feed them and Gilead certainly doesn’t care enough to shoot them or provide them with scraps. A pair of handmaids hurried past at a brisk pace, white wings gliding like fresh sheets of paper, next to a statue that they haven’t torn down yet but most certainly will. 

 

It’s of a woman, in classical style, cast in copper and oxidizing slowly. Soon she’ll be removed from her proud perch and melted down into electrical wiring. Her plaque already followed the same fate. 

 

How strange, to see the only static human presence left from before still staring out into nothing, like a long forgotten deity. She’s like an antique, left standing in the broad daylight of a garage sale before she’s thrown away for not fetching the owner a price. 

 

The way out is fraught with danger, of course. But I hear if you have enough money these days to bribe the right people, it can be made easier. I’m sure that’s how some people managed to escape.

 

But the rest of us are like her. Of old standing, hollow, valuable and bolted to the ground. Some of us are valuable to our superiors for transport. Some of us are valuable as carriers of the seed from the barren. Some of us are valuable because we know our worth is little, and our lives of little consequence.

 

Some of us are on the wall, remains of what once was. 

 

Some of us have names, some of us have titles, both fake and real. I guess I’m lucky to still know mine. I’m lucky there’s no distinction.

 

I wonder where my Commander needs to be today, to leave so late? Maybe I’ll get to see what happened to John F Kennedy Airport. I doubt it’s still called that.

 

Maybe he just needs to attend a local council meeting, a few blocks away. He can be lazy, now that he has a driver to escort him everywhere. 

 

Maybe he’s going to a big council meeting, in Manhattan again. Maybe I’ll devise a way to keep track of the time it takes to get there, so I can gauge my proximity. Maybe I can stray from the circle around my vehicle and go talk to the other drivers around. They might know more than I do.

 

Or maybe I’m driving to a big, dark room, to my own ending. I guess now I remember why I was writing this.

 

I can hear footsteps up the ladder. It must be time. Time for something.

 

Time for me to hide this before they see it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of on the fence about this chapter. I enjoyed it but sometimes I have trouble keeping things interesting. Any thoughts would be appreciated :)

Where we end up going isn’t what I expect in the slightest. 

 

The weather was cloudy, icy morning rain dampening the pavement. Despite it’s temperature it had that smell that was distinctly familiar. Of the flowers and the grass. The chirping birds and slight cursing when a lingering drop hits you in just the wrong spot. That doesn’t happen much anymore, any of it. The Commander was sure to bring his umbrella and it’s not like I have much to say these days. Pleasantries are exchanged, and there’s a hint of something in his voice I couldn’t place until he spoke again, after we were well out of view of the house.

 

“Where are we going, sir,” It’s not a request. I have to keep my eyes on the road because God only knows with my amount of skill I’d crash this damn thing if I looked away for even a second. 

 

“Into town, and take a right at the Loaves and Fishes, and I’ll tell you from there. You’ve probably never been there before.” His eyes are bright as he says this, like they usually are, even when  he has to elaborate for his driver as if it’s no trite task to be saddled with.

 

Normally I wouldn’t respond, but I have to. It’s rare that we talk much on the drive. He handles me with mild annoyance most days and complete indifference other days. I hope it would have nothing to do with me but of course I can’t ask. He’d lie and say it was a council meeting.

 

“I haven’t, sir.”

 

“Well then you should come in with me.” He states as if the matter is settled.

 

Again, I wouldn’t respond, but he doesn’t seem agitated. 

 

“Are you sure, sir? Shouldn’t I just wait for you outside?”

 

“Nonsense my boy,” He says that sometimes, like we’re somehow in a deeper relationship than simply a driver and his superior. I don’t like it, but there’s nothing to be said against it, even if it crawls around under my skin like spiders. He continues on from the back seat. “You’re still new to your position, and it’s important to show you the way we intend this country to be run. You may be back to this place yourself one day.”

 

He doesn’t tack on the expected ‘If you’re lucky,’ and immediately my face drains and I nearly blow past an intersection. My foot lowers on the brakes a little harder than usual but it’s only a slight jolt. He doesn’t seem to mind though.

 

The conversation pretty much stops there. I’m not much in the mood to say anything else. In Gilead all roads seem to lead to some end whether they’re to the clearing where the Handmaid’s deal with crimes of their flesh or to the back of the Eyes’ van. All start in darkness, all end in light. 

 

I take the right as he continues to sit there in silent, now smiling. It’s unsettling to see smiling from the upper crust knowing their intentions and what seems to make them happy. Before, he wouldn’t have been considered unattractive, I don’t think. He’s got a medium complexion, only a few shades darker than me, is older by at least a decade if not more, where the crows feet and laugh lines have started to scar into his tissue. His black hair is buzzed short, with a few streaks of grey at the nape of his neck. His nose is angled and juts out of his face slightly, his eyes close together at the bridge and a deep, dark brown. For some reason I can picture him with glasses, even though he doesn’t wear any.

 

Maybe it’s just the situation, I could say, but given his alignment, I think I would’ve avoided him happily in the time before. Maybe if he didn’t take pride in raping women with his wife every month and executing millions of innocent people, we could be more than just uncomfortable acquaintances.

 

I sound crazy saying that. I guess it’s just all the time alone. It’s hard not to think about people and who they were before. There had to have been a before, for everyone here. It would be wise to block it out, adapt and shut up, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get past it. Others have, probably, sure, but how often do they slip back into their old realities? Ones of buzzing to work, hearing sirens and taxi horns, drinking coffee, maybe talking to that special person you had a crush on… all those nights of smoking, drinking, sex, debauchery. It’s like hearing about the time before you were born, almost, a vengeful nostalgia that exists only in memory here. 

 

That statue… she’s a memory to someone I bet. To her creator, to the countless people who walked right by her between the hours of day and night, to those few moments that were cherished by a proposal, a meeting, or even just a stupid photo at the base. Once the physical trappings disappear, what’s left to be retrieved?

 

“Turn left up here.” The Commander orders, tapping an index finger on the glass separating us as if I can’t hear him.

 

“Yes sir,” I nod. He’s less happy looking now. Maybe he expected me to carry on with the conversation. Thank him for his generous assumption that I too may end up at our destination one day. He doesn’t seem to appreciate me kissing his ass, at least not from what I can tell. Other commanders are like that, definitely. It could be Manhattan or Gilead, two different worlds, but men’s inner ego doesn’t change. 

 

We hit a stoplight. The buildings in town have been replaced by trees on either side, a bridge and creek coming up. Gaurdians flank either side of the bridge and a pair of Martha's begin to cross.

 

“How much further are we?” I asked in a low voice, barely audible. 

 

“Be patient, my boy. The journey can be more important than the destination sometimes, you know.” He scolds almost playfully. I suck in a breath quietly.

 

“I’m sorry sir,” I answer.

 

“Just be patient.” He restates in a gentle manner.

 

I don’t want to be chided again, so I stay quiet until he speaks again. 

 

“It should be up here, on the right.” 

 

We pull up in front of a large facade that eclipses the soft glow of the mid afternoon sun, two stories tall, red brick with concrete trim. Guardians stand on the steps like statues, guns cocked and visors shielding their eyes. The building is nameless, and the ivy climbing the structure is muddy and dormant. Ice piles in glass-like stalactites under the roof eaves. I place the parking brake on and glace at the rearview mirror.

 

“This is it.” He unbuckles his seatbelt. “Come on, Ellis.” 

I apologize if I’ve written this before, but I have to elaborate. Chester Hawthorne unsettles me not in his stewing silence, but in his jovial demeanor. It’s the kind of way I’d see a preacher talk up the flock in Sunday mass, as if he’s got the morning wood of God deep within him and can’t keep himself quiet for the life of him. Of the few people I knew in the time before who were this happy usually they had legitimate reason to be so. When Christie got proposed to by her boyfriend she drove us all nuts for days on end with her consistent gushing about ‘oh, what a beautiful day it is!’ in the same week that I’d been shit on by a pigeon, lost my bag at the airport, and trashed my laptop. The contrast was what made it unbearable then.  

I don’t quite know how to elaborate the reason for feeling how I do when he refers to me. Maybe it’s just fear-- like when you sit next to a mentally unstable person on the bus.  _ A crazy man _ , you think trying to avoid eye contact and stare at your knees,  _ Just don’t acknowledge him and he’ll go away _ .

 

If that were how our relationship worked Commander Hawthorne would’ve left me home and driven the damn car himself. Maybe I could’ve had more time to write then… fantasize about escaping again, in my mind.

 

In my mind. I know better than to actually try it. Yet.

 

But he only goes where and when he pleases. He’s fixed to nothing, beyond his charitable duty. If he wants to go to the edges of Gilead and back nothing would stop him, not even the other commanders. If he wanted to cut off any one of our hands or heads or feet all he would have to do is say the word, and that would be the barrier. Complete freedom, within the confines of only his own desires. Fixed to nothing.

 

Well, fixed to something, actually. Me. 

 

Lucky me.

 

I tug the edges of my black coat and tighten the first clasp. I move to tighten the second one, but he stands right next to the passenger door, bouncing on his heels with his smile turned down a few notches, but still shining from where it’s fixed in his clean cut beard. He waits. He doesn’t like waiting.

 

And so I open the door and greet the cold air. With  _ vigor _ , he’d say. With flare. Like a daffodil. God even when I write I’m incriminating myself. The chilled wind bursts in as I unbuckle myself and climb out of the car, ramrod straight, before shutting and locking our means of transportation. It’s not even necessary, what with the Gaurdians everywhere. They’d shoot a squirrel trying to hide under the thing if it so much as moved. 

 

I wish I had a scarf. This fucking bites. Chester Hawthorne lets me pass without a word-- only that smile. At least he’s unarmed in a way, but he seems like a cat who would toy with his food. Let me enter the warm building before a bullet slices through my right eye that offends thee so. Let me watch with the other as he smiles through it all, laughing like a toddler that trips in a flowerbed. Shivering, the guardians open the door as they see us coming up the steps. I sidestep them and wait for him to pass me. It’s hardly good form to be ahead of your superior, Guardian Blane would say to us in our training.

 

Sweat crawls down my back. He enters, I follow. The doors woosh shut behind us. 

 

Immediately there’s a sound that breaches the silent hallway we’ve just entered. Off-white lockers line the walls, stacked in two’s and gleaming with polish. Maybe a high school. With young children, by the sounds of it. It’s a little girl, laughing. I haven’t heard anything like that in years, especially not since Gilead. My heart skips a beat and pins and needles shoot up my neck. I suddenly can’t hear.

 

“Come on, Ellis.” His voice rings and footsteps echo.

 

I can’t move. But I do somehow. I press on, behind him, winter light gleaming off the ochre painted walls. 

 

We pass what feels like thousands of lockers, dozens of doors, empty, devoid, before going up a marble staircase. It winds in an L shape. We ascend to the second floor. As I reach the top steps I see the Commander stand next to an older woman with a sunken, round face and short, golden hair. A whistle is looped around her large neck and rests on a dark brown cloak. And aunt, smiling and sincere, shakes his hand. 

 

“Blessed day, Commander Hawthorne.” She shares his beaming grin.

 

“Blessed day, Aunt Julia.” He returns. “Thank you for being able to share this glorious day.”

 

“Praised be his generosity!” She exclaimed. “He has blessed you with the chance to begin your future.”

 

“Praised be,” He chuckles. “Ofchester is a marvelous handmaid, but we have always been eager parents.”

 

They talk like this, somehow, as if there’s someone watching, which someone may well be. I remain silent unless spoken to, by my superiors who stand before me. Aunts are among the supreme end of the order. I’ve only seen them from a distance, like one would’ve with leaders in the day before who seemed far away. They seem to be the heart and soul of Gilead, and their enthusiasm when beaming about their girls, like doting mothers, is even more disturbing than my Commander sometimes. How they talk about them like children, and believe they know best. It constricts my chest and makes my heart beat like crazy. 

 

If I had been a handmaid I would’ve likely ended it at The Red Center. I wouldn’t be able to take what many of them did. Their strength is frankly incredible, the ones who continue to go on. 

 

Thankfully I won’t ever have to deal with them beyond these types of third person interactions. My own teacher, Guardian Blane, is similar to my own Commander in his enthusiasm, but in a stern and thick headed manner. He was the type to scare us through brute tactics and cold, intense stares. Us drivers knew better than to step out of line because it would be a swift and brutal ending by the wall. We are all expendable to Gilead, and Guardian Blane knew better than to let a punishment impair one of us. As transportation workers we couldn’t afford to lose anything-- even an eye or a finger, so the only solution to insubordination would be the wall. One by one, the obvious males who couldn’t fit the criteria disappeared in the night, leaving gaps between our lineups. Nameless, gone, and now forgotten. There was little sense of camaraderie between us. I only knew a few names and they’re likely halfway across the state by now. 

 

I’ll never see most of them again, I’m certain. Nothing stops Guardian Blane from appearing at the front doors with the Eyes, and once that happens a new driver will appear in your place. He could come for me, if he wanted to, but I don’t live in fear of him. He doesn’t scare me, as much as he should, truth be told. 

 

To me, he’s merely a distant blur in the back of my mind. I’m much more preoccupied hiding myself and my mistakes than in being found out. It may prove fatal, but God only knows what else I could possibly be scared of without losing my mind.

 

They start walking. I follow, shoes echoing on the floor. We pass doors, most of them silent, until the end of the hall when the Aunt removes a key from her pocket.

 

The room has a light on overhead, fluorescent, and buzzing. Halfway across the room a table, and a two small chairs sit occupied by a little girl and an aunt. The former is scribbling on a piece of paper with a crayon, and the later is stooped down and nodding to the activity and the imagination involved. I can feel her eyes look up at the doorway, but they’re not looking at the Commander or the Aunt. They’re looking at me.

 

A small moment of silence passes until the Aunt at the table breaks it. “Blessed day, Aunt Maria,” She nods at the girl. “Ilse.”

 

“Ilse,” Aunt Maria prompts. “Stand up.” Her voice is more stern than her counterpart. Ilse does as she’s told, putting the crayon down, and pushing in her chair. Her hands hide behind her back, clearly gripping the pink fabric of her dress. 

 

She’s completely silent, and still looking at me. I look down for a moment and suddenly smile, before quickly wiping it from my face. She notices, and smiles back. This silent language prevails until Aunt Maria stands up as well. She immediately is still as a statue, frozen in place and lips downturned in a slight frown. She looks at the floor, avoiding eye contact like a child afraid of her principal. 

 

“Ilse,” Aunt Julia at the doorway speaks gently, as if realizing her discomfort. “This is Commander Hawthorne. He and his wife have agreed to take you in as their own. The Lord is giving you a proper family… what do you say?”

 

“Praised be his mercy,” She mumbles quietly. Aunt Maria scowls and slowly leads a hand up the child’s chin and I immediately feel rage towards this woman.  

 

“The Lord cannot hear you from down there, child.” She chided bitterly. “What do you say?”

 

“Praised be his mercy.” She repeats, louder, and lifting her head to view her situation and the man who would be taking her whether she wanted to leave or not. Commander Hawthorne walks up to her quietly, and extends a hand to her.

 

“We are pleased to welcome you into our home, Ilse. May you find happiness with us.”

 

Of course he says it like there’s no other option, which there isn’t. With a smile. I try not to look too closely at her. One Aunt is intimidating enough. An additional one who is far less lenient in demeanor is hardly a comforting situation. 

 

Ilse is not stupid, because she takes his hand and shakes it lightly, nodding slowly-- as if eternally stuck in a lucid dream and trying to see if she can escape from the glass bowl she’s been ensnared in, everything echoing loudly.   

 

“Thank you, Commander.” She replies. “May I be worthy enough to join your family. Praised be his…” She trails off and her eyes widen suddenly in fear, as if she’s felt the chill of a ghost. Aunt Maria scowls, lips puckered.

 

The other Aunt eyes her companion and clears her throat. “Praised be his mercy, dear.” She finishes for her. “Remember your manners.”

 

Remember your lines, Ellis. Remember your position. The Eyes enter stage right if you don’t. Like that giant novelty hook they used to use in old vaudeville shows in the time before.

 

“Praised be his mercy,” She repeats, nodding a little quicker. I wonder how long she’s been here; how long she’s had to fear Aunt Maria and her withering scowels. How long she’s had to miss her mother and father, from before. How much she even remembers from before. How much they’ve already forced her to forget. She can’t be more than nine.

 

The poor thing is clearly terrified… not that I blame her. I know I would be if I were in her shoes.

 

The ride home is a sad affair, mostly consisting of the Commander trying to get her to speak beyond single words and yes or no questions. He’s failing miserably so far, and that’s not surprising in the least, because of course her favorite animal is so important to her as opposed to understanding and coping with the fact that she’s locked in a black box with two complete strangers hurtling towards some white man’s burden fallacy of ‘let us take the child from her disgusting parents and raise her the right way, by God’s grace!’

 

The only saving grace is that whenever she can I catch her looking in the rearview mirror at me like only a curious child could. I’d find it cute if I wasn’t so concerned with getting us all back home in one piece, and of course now that there’s a child in the equation the Commander is such a big help with much needed directions. He probably hoped for this goddamn snow. Anything I guess to spend more time interrogating his new child before his wife gets to have her turn.

 

She must’ve known about this. There’s no way she couldn’t have. I suppose that communication in this family only extends to the cherished words of husband and wife. As we turn onto our familiar street I’m struck with the notion that her time may be nearing its end, what with a child now in this family. Has it been that long?

 

No. No it couldn’t be. She’s only been here for five months. They must be hedging their bets, like a couple would trading stocks, pouring over the news and economics section of the paper until they somehow wound up in the classified, remembering that other option to secure something precious, what is most precious.

 

Once we pull into the driveway the wind is howling. I can see his hands reach and tighten the soft pink cloak around her neck, ever so gently-- almost like he’s done it before. She shoots me a look, indiscernible as I place the car in park.

 

The snow has started accumulating and the sun is hiding behind a thin layer of clouds. I sigh slightly as I fight the biting gust of wind opening the door, and do the same for my Commander as he ushers the child from the vehicle. Getting them inside is rather easy, and I miss the happy reunion to search the shed for the tarp to keep the car from freezing. Perhaps if the snow isn’t too much tomorrow Nia will want to go show off her shiny new accessory to her friends, now that she’s finally here. 

 

Mona was nice enough to lend me some of the firewood left over for my own wood burning stove. It can still get quite cold in my apartment without the kitchens going and even if it were clear outside I’m in no shape to go chop down a tree off property and make my own wood. They’ll surely be busy enough not to notice a few logs missing. If the smells coming from the kitchen indicate anything Mona is busy preparing a feast to celebrate the new arrival as I write this all down. She did say they had turkey at the store today, when I passed her with an armful of wood.

 

Nights like these, I remember them all in a blur. Some where I’m young and hiding behind the living room couch while my mother cooks, some where I’m wrapped around my first boyfriend under the sheets, and others where I’m just next to Diana, drinking some cheap wine and laughing about who knew what. 

 

I wish I weren’t alone up here, but it’s not like there’s anyone else to talk to around here. The Commander and his Wife are busy with Ilse, doing whatever they consider parenting, Mona would be too busy and too pissed off about the short notice to chat, and she’s likely hiding away in her room.

 

I do oftentimes wonder what goes on inside her head. She must be hyper aware, quick to remain silent. Using those wings for their intended purpose, and riding the days as they go between ceremonies. I had a hard enough time reading women before-- her complete lack of silence or any real outward expression hardly makes things easier. It’s like looking at that painting; the one of the girl from the Renaissance that everyone absolutely loves to stare at and overanalyze. What could she be thinking behind that smile; behind that facade. The only difference is she’s not immortalized, not lost to time yet. Her only chance for that is to bear children, and I doubt that with the way the Hawthornes treat her that they’d spend time or money on a portrait of a woman who is only a temporary accessory-- a means to an end.

 

I would say at least she has two more chances, if this one falls through, but chances at what? In this world you’re damned if you do or damned if you don’t. House after house, family after family, cock after cock… makes no difference-- it wouldn’t to me. If the end result were the same, it simply wouldn’t matter. No handmaid can achieve an endless career unless a Wife dies unexpectedly, and Nia may not be young but I doubt she’s going anywhere anytime soon.

 

Maybe I can ask her sometime, about herself. Maybe… contact with her isn’t forbidden, but I should know better than to just enter her room like one of those people with press badges in the time before and start asking questions. It may be against the grain, considering how removed we all have to be from our means of reproduction here, but still… it’s not like I have anything else to achieve here beyond survival; achieving immortality through you.

 

It’s decided. There must be a you. Because I’ll be damned if this shit doesn’t end someday. These words won’t be in vain if even one other person can read these-- if Ilse could read these. If someone can find meaning in me describing myself, from my perspective or someone else's story, it is immortality. It is a way. Ellis won’t die, none of us will.

 

History has its eyes on us, and I’ll be damned if I let it turn a blind one on anyone around me.


End file.
